insanity

Wiggling brain worms of lovecross each other on withering paths,laying out siege plans and more,demanding the mind bow and be labeled a whore.Tussling tatters of titrated remains,their infection spreads softlybut fierce is the pain.When all is lost to the annals of memory(that malleable stuff made of thoughts stuck in entropy),we’ll know not the beginning,seek to suss out the end.But by that point the parasites will be dug in,they’ve rewired the hardware,unfucked the program and rewritten the codes.Their beautifully at odds with all we call real,if God were a worm I might be filled with more zeal.A zest for the unknown where dreams can take flight,even a place to call home in the bitterest of nights.But, here I sit.Obliterated identity left off as a stainto be cleaned by the new hostwho’d prefer I be insane.

Exhibitionism at it’s finest calls for a complete strip down – but like most nudity, sometimes those watching would prefer the clothes stayed on. Authors must dangle and hope the meat on display attracts the eye. Easier perhaps when your life is wrenched from the most vivid hallucinations of Jack Kerouac and Hunter S. Thompson then run through the Douglas Adams’ improbability drive. Prodded with LSD and electrified glow-sticks into the Minotaur’s lair to play. Surely that would entertain?

This is a lifelong dream, a Purpose or a calling that I’ve never been able to just put ahead of everything else. Please share, and thank you for taking the time to browse. Thank you.